


maybe I just wanna be yours

by tsunderestorm



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8128082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunderestorm/pseuds/tsunderestorm
Summary: In which Steve's car breaks down in the Middle of Nowhere, New Mexico and Bucky is just the mechanic to fix it.
you have this hot mechanic!Bucky art by inediblesushi to thank for this, haha





	

Steve officially had _the_ worst luck. Ever. He had hoped against hope that his car would make the trip, but the New Mexico heat seemed to have done it in. He’s not too surprised; the thing was beat to shit and old as hell before he’d decided to drive it practically cross-country but _really_? According to the GPS on his phone, he was still three hours from Thor’s tiny town. So close, yet so far, and the temperature gauge on the dashboard panel had climbed all the way past red and the smell of hot metal and boiling chemicals assaulted him.

The last two miles to the station were hell. The car lurched and sputtered and smoked and steamed, and Steve was surprised it made it there. Luckily, there was a car garage attached to the station. It was small, and closed up, but he hoped that was just because business wasn’t exactly booming on this lonely stretch of desert. Stepping out, he couldn’t resist kicking the tire as he made his way around the front of the smoking car on his way into the (mercifully) air-conditioned chill of the gas station. There was a pretty redhead at the counter with a book propped up against the cash register, about what looked like some badass secret agent or spy or something. She looked up when he came in, eyes alert. Her name tag said _Nat_.

“Um, hey,” Steve started. “I'm just passing through, and I kind of-”

“Is that your car?” she asked, her gaze travelling over him. Steve glanced over his shoulder out the window at the pale blue sedan parked out front, steam boiling like a witch’s cauldron from under its hood.

“...yeah.”

“Sucks for you.” He was about to ask if there was a mechanic that went with the garage next door when she stood up, poked her head in the door behind her and yelled **_JAMES_**!

James must be the mechanic, Steve assumed. So this Nat wasn’t the nicest person ever, or at least not a talkative one. At least she seemed willing to help. He looked over some dusty candy bars and some assorted gas station goodies to pass the time, sizing up one-dose packs of antacid, Tylenol and Tums. It already felt like an eternity for the mechanic to appear, standing alone with Nat with only the hum of an overhead light to break the silence. While he waited, he pictured a middle-aged, rotund man with hair as greasy as an engine block and laughed, imagining the good-natured caricature he might draw later.

When he looked up, though, he got more than he bargained for.

James was _definitely_ the mechanic, that much was clear. The brackish grease smeared on his stubbled cheek left no room for debate on that. Typical, why _wouldn’t_ a car mechanic get a little grease on him? But the rest of him was...extraordinary. He was _young,_ for one thing. And hot as hell, to boot. Clear blue eyes, handsome nose, strong jaw, and the reddest lips Steve had ever seen on a man. Broad chest, strong arms... or, arm? Only one was flesh and blood. The other was polished, gleaming metal.

He was wearing a tank that rode up, leaving a strip of skin exposed between the hem of the shirt and the jumpsuit tied around his waist. The dark hair coiling sinuously into his waistband went well with the hair on his chest and suddenly the desert heat wasn’t the only thing making Steve thirsty.

“Tasha, there is such a thing as getting up and coming to get me,” James chastised as he swiped a dirty thumb across her cheek and made her hit him. The whole time, though, he was looking at Steve. Jesus, his eyes were such a light blue they were almost grey. When he was done defending himself from Nat (whose full name, Steve guess, must be Natasha instead of the Natalie he had guessed) he finally glanced over Steve’s shoulder at the outdated hunk of smoking metal parked out front and _laughed_.

“Holy shit, is that a Tempo?” he asked, looking at Steve with a blend of excitement and disbelief.

Steve was suddenly self-conscious. Sure, his car might be a piece of shit but was _his_ piece of shit, and it’d been his mom’s before that. It had gotten him from point A to point B for years and even if he was mad as hell at it he wasn’t about to let this mechanic, total beefcake or not, make fun of it.

“Yeah,” he said, not really trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “It’s usually okay, but I think this heat’s getting to it. Dry, you know?”

“What year?” James asked, nodding his understanding at Steve’s statement. He told him, ‘ _94_.

“Nice,” the mystery mechanic said. “I can work with that. How long’s it been smoking like that?”

“A few miles,” Steve answered, feeling suddenly self-conscious when hottie mechanic winced.

“Let's survey the damage,” James said with a wink as he pushed open the door. “You’re probably safe, then, and haven’t cracked a head gasket or anything.”

A few minutes and curses later and Steve was feeling a few anxiety levels higher than he’d been before. James pulled the oil dipstick out and looked it over thoughtfully, proudly proclaiming that it wasn’t milky (who the hell uses a word like that for a car?) so that meant water wasn’t leaking into the oil. Because of that, James pronounced that he did not, in fact, have a cracked head gasket. Which was a good thing. Steve didn't know much about cars. He wasn’t stupid, but his expertise was in art history and picking fights. He knew how to change a tire and check the fluid levels, but that was about it.

“You’re not leaking coolant, and your fan seems to be working fine. That means it’s probably the thermostat, which I can fix, easy as pie. Needs to cool down, though,” James said. “It's too goddamn hot right now, and I don’t quite have everything for it. I can get it though, no problem.”

“Thanks, James.”

“Bucky.”

“What?''

“Bucky. Only Tasha calls me James.”

Hot mechanic liked to be called _Bucky_. Somehow, that was stupid and silly and cute and everything all at once.

\--

Luckily, Bucky explained after he hung up the gas station’s only phone, a parts store in the next big town had the parts and Bucky was welcome to go and pick them up.

“You wanna come?” Bucky asked as Steve sat down at a table next to the soft pretzel machine on the counter. Steve's heart fluttered. He'd love to get in the car with Bucky, lifesaving angel and possessor of the world's hottest body. “It's not a long trip but it's always more fun with company. Especially when company is pretty.”

Steve flushed, and not because of the heat. He knew he wasn’t _that_ bad to look at. He’d dated a few people, slept with a couple, and they apparently thought he was beautiful or handsome or whatever else you say in the heat of the moment. But nothing, _nothing_ , compared to the way Bucky called him that one simple word, _pretty_.

“Why not?” he answered. He’d be glad for some uninterrupted time to stare at Bucky until his mouth watered and besides, Nat looked like she might eat him alive if left alone for too long.

Bucky had a Mustang. Because _of course_ he did. It was black, sleek, with one of those raised up things on the hood that Steve had seen in ads for the Need for Speed movies. Gleaming, gorgeous, powerful. He'd ridden in Tony's brand new sports cars before and nothing had ever seemed as _cool_ as the vintage Mustang he’d kept hidden in one of the bays at the garage, hidden behind tinted windows like some sort of secret.

The drive was pleasant enough. Bucky didn't drive too fast (which was almost disappointing, Steve could be kind of an adrenaline junkie despite it being bad for his heart, blah blah blah) and surprisingly, Steve didn’t feel too anxious about keeping up a conversation like he sometimes did. The words just flowed easily with Bucky, let them jump from one topic to the next.

He found out the one kind of car Bucky had sworn never to work on (German), how he'd ended up in New Mexico (“red in his ledger”, as Nat apparently called their collective past), and even though Steve hadn't asked, how he'd lost his arm (street racing accident). Bucky in turn got to hear about Steve's summer plans (hang out with Thor and his new girlfriend), where he was from (Brooklyn, tough as nails even though he was tiny, don’t you forget it) and the one thing that grinded Steve's gears more than anything (bullies).

He hardly noticed that it was hot and dry and uncomfortable in the glaring sun or that the drive took 45 minutes one way because Bucky was just so charmingly charismatic. He liked big band and swing, had an oldies radio station tuned on the dial. He wished like hell someone would make a club that played that sort of thing, like an old dance hall. He’d love to take a date to one of those, he told Steve. Steve’s heart skipped a beat a little at the way he said _date_ , not naming a gender or anything. Steve told Bucky about his art, how he was working on a big animation project and always looking for inspiration for new character designs to keep his work fresh. Little things, big things. There wasn’t moment of silence in the car and, stupidly sentimental as he was, Steve couldn’t help feeling grateful and thankful that his car had fucked up where it did.

\--

Bucky looked hot as fucking sin back at the garage. Leaned over the open hood of Steve's decrepit car, hair falling in his face, focused. Shirt hugging his chest and abs perfectly, just the right amount of messy. Steve squirmed in the hard plastic seat he’d taken up residence in with his sketchbook, feeling suddenly bad about looking Bucky over. The guy was just trying to work, jesus, he didn’t deserve being lusted after.

 

“Hey Stevie, you like what you see?” Bucky asked after a few minutes of work, stretching out a pain in his back from bending over. He was so fucking sweaty, between the heat and the effort of removing some old, broken part and throwing it angrily to the side. God, did Steve like what he saw. Every muscular, hairy, _sexy_ inch of him.

Playfully, he teased “My car? Hell yeah, I like it.”

Bucky pouted and blew him a kiss. Steve pretended to swat it with his sketchbook as Bucky leaned down to pick a tool off of the ground. When he did that, Bucky clutched his heart and flopped over the front bumper, offended, and Steve found himself idly wondering what else on his car might need fixed before he could safely continue on his trip. You know, just in case.

\--

Bucky smelled like metal and sunlight and fresh, clean soap. Steve preferred smells like Earl Grey tea, lavender and bergamot. The smell of charcoal on his fingertips. Freshly uncapped acrylic paints. Soft smells, not harsh like Bucky, not raw and exhilarating when he got close to show Steve how badly damaged a part from the car was, how he pointed out the parts where metal had corroded. Steve felt dizzy from the heat and mental exhaustion, from the way Bucky looked at him, and he dozed off in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the gas station’s lobby after a while.

\--

“Wanna go for a joy ride?” Bucky woke him up asking, and Steve figured why the hell not. He was well-rested now, his color not as high and flushed, breathing better now that he was in out of the heat. The thermostat was fixed, but it was too late at night to get started back on his trip. Besides, Bucky was...really great. Warm, funny, charismatic, hot as hell...the whole package. Steve couldn't help but be drawn to him, like the moon orbiting the Earth, like a magnet to metal. _You’d love to go for a joy ride on his dick_ , a voice in his head told him, and he shoved it away. Jesus, rein it in, Rogers.

“Hell yeah.”

Bucky put the keys to his car in Steve’s hand. There was a tiny red star keychain dangling, one that almost matched the clear crystal star on Steve’s own keyring and something about that was cute. But wait, why...why had Bucky given him his keys? Steve had never driven something like that in his life, not a sports car of any kind and definitely not a vintage one that had clearly been so lovingly restored and _hell_.

“You can do it,” Bucky teased as he slid into the passenger's seat. “Just don't be afraid of him. He doesn't bite.”

Driving Bucky's Mustang was an experience. The wind on his face, chilled desert air all around them (god, it got cold in the desert at night) Bucky's messy hair blowing in his crystal blue eyes. Bucky's hand on his thigh while he drove, squeezing when he shifted, urging _good job_ and _you can take it a little faster, I can tell you want to_.

Steve got nervous after he swerved to avoid hitting an armadillo and found out just how badly the handling on the car was. It was heavy, hard to correct once it had chosen a direction to go, and he pulled over to the side of the road, telling Bucky _no more, no way_. Instead of making fun of him Bucky had understood, had squeezed his shoulder and said okay, he’d drive home. Back. To the station, and the garage.

“I just don't think anyone can handle it like you,” Steve shook his head as he jumped out of the car and walked around to move to the passenger side. “Too much power. Too big.”

“Funny, you seem like the type who likes big,” Bucky said lowly as he stopped in front of him as their paths crossed in front of the car. “Like maybe a little power would turn you on.”

Was he? No.

Yeah, he was. Bucky, hottest guy in the whole goddamn world, saver of cars and stirrer of arousals, was coming onto him. Not even subtly, either.

Steve mustered every ounce of courage he had, every bit of coy flirting that Peggy had tried to teach him to be so good at, and looked up into Bucky’s eyes as he said “Yeah, and you seem like the type who can handle anything.”

Steve was astonished in those next few seconds by how easily Bucky could lift him, like he was fucking _nothing_. Normally it would piss him off, to be lifted up and tugged around like a girl in the cheesy movies where the couple reunites after years or some shit, but Bucky lifting him up around his waist and pressing him down onto the hood of his Mustang did the opposite.

He wanted him. Fuck, he wanted him, had wanted him all day. Maybe even since he’d first seen him. He wanted him now and he wanted him later, wanted him for the time it took the car to get fixed and forever, wanted to feel Bucky's hands on him for an eternity. One flesh and blood, one metal, both so fucking hot as they shoved up his shirt to get to the concave expanse of his belly, to squeeze his hips to get a better hold on his body.

Bucky kissed like he owned him as easily as he owned the car, another thing that should have pissed him off. He caught Steve’s mouth in a kiss that seared like the sun, brought a hand from Steve’s belly to the back of his neck to hold him there. After a while it wasn’t so much _kissing_ as it was Bucky fucking Steve’s mouth with his tongue, hand holding his cheek and chin as he thoroughly tasted him. Moaning into his mouth, eating up Steve’s gasps and pants and answering them with his own as he rocked his hips against him.

“Is this your price?” Steve teased when Bucky gave him a second to breathe, hooking a leg around Bucky's waist and pressing them closer still. He rubbed the heel of his foot on Bucky's muscular thigh, guiding the slow grind of his crotch against Steve’s. He was hard as hell, hot and hungry and demanding as he kissed Steve in between his words. “For, y’know, fixing my car.”

It was over too soon, but that was almost a blessing. The whole thing was too much, like something out of a raunchy erotica: boy meets boy in the middle of nowhere, boy wants it bad, boy rubs against boy until he jizzes in his jeans like some preteen punk. Something about the fact that Bucky had just rubbed against him until he came, like some sex-starved animal was so fucking primal and sexy and trashy and everything all at once that it had sent Steve over the edge, reminded him of how (upsettingly) long it had been since he'd gotten laid and he did the same goddamn thing as Bucky had, hips jerking an erratic rhythm against Bucky’s as he rubbed himself against him in time with the kisses and bites and sharp little sucks Bucky was giving to the skin just below his ear.

Bucky pulled back to give him a devilish grin. “Baby, if this is how you're paying I think you might need to stay and let me fix some more on that old thing.”

Steve shoved him playfully. He knew he was kidding, knew already that Bucky would never ask for something like that. It was easy to laugh and joke with Bucky, easy to talk and get along.

“I got an apartment over the garage,” Bucky murmured into the shell of his ear, rolling his hips against Steve's, pressing him down harder against the hood. There was just enough warmth left in the metal from the day’s sun that it felt good, hot metal below and hot flesh above. Like Bucky's hands. “If you're staying, I better take you to it.”

\--

Steve woke up in the morning with a very warm, very muscular body pressed against his back. _Bucky._  He squirmed and it was like every nerve in his body sprang back to life at once. Vividly he recalled every moment of the previous night. The thrumming power of the Mustang’s re-built engine under his ass, the hot metal under the backs of his thighs; the hard weight of Bucky’s well-formed body above him, the wet warmth of Bucky’s mouth on his. His thighs had a dull ache in them, a gentle reminder of the stress put on them when Bucky had bent him, hooked the backs of Steve’s knobby knees over his broad shoulders and fucked him hard and deep. His lips still felt swollen and sensitive from one too many (and somehow, at the same time, not enough) hungry kisses and he could tell from the dull throb that he had a collection of hickeys on his neck.

Bucky stirred from behind him and nuzzled into his neck. “Stevie,” he whispered as he nibbled at his ear. “I was serious. I think I might need you to stay.”

Steve rolled over onto his back and Bucky propped himself up on his head, looking down at him with softly, sleepily. “What are you gonna do, start breaking things on my car so you can fix them?”

Bucky dipped his head so his messy hair fell in his face, laughing quietly. “Don’t tempt me.” and then, softer, he whispered “I don’t wanna be without you.”

Steve sighed and snuggled closer in towards Bucky, letting the man’s flesh and blood arm wrap low on his hips as the other snaked under the pillow to hold him close, kissing the top of his head when he settled in. Steve really hoped Thor and his new girlfriend didn’t mind an extra guest. He was pretty sure he’d be trading the driver’s side of his battered Tempo for the passenger seat of a vintage Mustang for the rest of the trip to Puente Antiguo.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't resist making Steve's hunk of junk car a Tempo...that was my first car and I have _many_ unpleasant memories of that thing's overheating problems, lol


End file.
